


radio silence

by low_fi



Series: the lighthouse [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Dark, GNC Elias Bouchard, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lighthouse AU (not the film) - continuation, Loneliness, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Secret Relationship, canon typical elias awfulness, descriptions of corruption activities, ish, suicide ideation, suicide mentions throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/low_fi/pseuds/low_fi
Summary: Almost a year after Elias came to the lighthouse and said his goodbyes, Peter remembers the radio.(sequel to necessary oversight)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas & Mikaele Salesa, past Elias Bouchard/Gertrude Robinson
Series: the lighthouse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947358
Comments: 30
Kudos: 69





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to continue this au. The first part works well as a finished whole, and I liked the ending - but alas, I have fallen a little bit in love with this universe, and there were some more things I wanted to explore.
> 
> If you haven't read the first part in this series, this won't make much sense. But who am I to stop you? :D 
> 
> anyway, please go check out part one (first in the same series) and in both fics, PLEASE heed the warnings in the tags. In short, there are references to suicide, loneliness, and mental health issues throughout (and a segment that describes a victim of the corruption). The whole fic is dark and angsty. If I forgot anything, let me know and I will tag it, just please - read at own peril. Enjoy :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nov edit: im editing this to flow more smoothly (and making adjustments to mikaele's way of speaking!! i'm so glad we heard him :')

Attachment to objects is one of the more pointless idiosyncrasies of humanity. From childhood to old age, people value the things in their life, whether they are purchases, or gifts, or even something found on the ground on a walk in the woods. People collect everything from rocks to teeth. People place value on dried flowers. 

Three navy blue jumpers, smushed together into a cardboard box. One year.

It has not been easy. It has not been hard. It has not been anything, and that is how it should be. 

Peter tapes the box shut and sits back on his heels. He looks around his bedroom, and his eyes inadvertently fall to the small brown radio. He exhales and picks it up from the floor, turning it in his hands; it seems a small thing, and its use likely outweighs any danger it might pose. He sets it on the cabinet, lifting himself slightly on his knees to do so and feeling the pain in his back. He places a hand over it and groans. 

There is a quick, loud honk outside, then another two in impatient succession. Peter stands up and lifts the box under his arm, making his way down the round staircase of the lighthouse. 

Mikaele is outside, leaning against the side of his car with his arms crossed. He looks cold and fed-up, his usual neutrally friendly disposition absent even as Peter greets him with a wave from the doorway. 

"Salesa," he calls out, annoyed to have to raise his voice over the wind.

The grass is pressed almost flat to the earth, silvery in the pale sunlight, and it winds against Mikaele's heavy boots as he pushes himself off his car and walks closer.

"Lukas, then?" he puts a hand forward. "Glad you changed your mind." 

Peter shakes it. "Peter, please. A pleasure to finally meet you. I do get tired of talking on the phone." 

Mikaele nods. For a few moments, he seems to simply look at him, studying his face. Peter shifts uncomfortably.

"So, you really can't even step foot outside?" he asks just when the silence gets unbearable, looking up at the dark spire of the lighthouse piercing the sky above them. He whistles.

"Not if I want the light to stay on, I'm afraid," Peter smiles. 

"And that would be it," Mikaele opens his arms and curls his fingers inwards, prompting him to hand over the box. "Not too heavy. It'll be a while before I can come back without Administration noticing." 

Peter shrugs. "I likely won't be taking you up on any more offers, anyway." 

Mikaele looks at him, but says nothing. He's not a pretentiously talkative man, but he's friendlier with Peter than is perhaps routine for him, for whatever reason--and never impolite.

He takes the box.

"If you're sure," he nods after a moment, adjusting his grip on the cardboard, "Very nice of you to do this, Peter. I'm sure there's someone just starving for this." 

"No problem at all."

Mikaele gives him a short, sharp smile that verges on sarcastic in its multitude of teeth. Equally sarcastic, Peter tips his hat at him, and shoots a grin to Mikaele's turned back. He walks slowly, limping slightly on an old injury, to his car. 

The quiet engine purrs as the vehicle pulls back onto the yellow road in a cloud of dust. Peter feels a faint needle of pain slip into his heart and waits for the inevitable flicker of the light above him, but none comes. Once he's certain he's alone, he looks up, scowling. 

"Happy now?" he asks. 

The light continues to glow a bright, searing white, casting a pale halo onto the fog around it. He's lucky he got one of Mikaele's cards; the man is a master of getting his own advertisements mingled with official documents, and the opportunity had practically fallen into Peter's lap.

He lights a cigarette and smokes it in the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame. When he's done, he closes the door and flicks the locks shut one by one, listening for each click with religious concentration. He will not be opening this door for at least another two weeks. 

In the evening, as he lies awake in bed, sprawled under the covers and a thick wooden blanket, and he stares at the white light filling his small window. Had it always been so bright? He honestly can't tell. Martin hasn't said anything, so he's probably imagining things. 

In the last few months, Peter has found it increasingly difficult to trust his senses. His mind is an unreliable narrator, and sometimes he wonders if he didn't imagine the whole Elias debacle in his boredom. He has always had a knack for twisting his memories to suit a whim, be it in the name of self-pity or villanising an unknown aggressor within his life, the stubborn force driving him to do things and feel things that he, Peter Lukas, does not do, and does not feel. 

At all. 

He has another piece of evidence, though. The candlestick phone still on his desk, with its elegant receiver and yellowed ivory face. He remembers the feel of it in his hand and the hours spent speaking softly into it, waiting for a laugh to come from the other side. 

Then again, who knows. The phone's been dead for almost a year. 

*

The fog gathers around his lighthouse like cigar smoke, as if the building itself were spewing it, set alight by an invisible match. Peter goes up to the gallery and cleans the mirrors almost every day, squinting his eyes to the light. He can feel his face settling into wrinkles; when he studies his face in the mornings, he sees them, like burrows cut into his skin by a spilling river. Day after day. Week after week. 

He is getting old. He has trouble sleeping. He's more tired, but unable to rest. Unburdened by anything that might stress him, and yet prickly. The light above paints all his windows a blinding white, even in the dead of night. As he's staying up late smoking by the clockworks, he decides that he could use something to take his mind off of things; he doesn't drink, and the cigarettes don't do much in the way or stress relief anymore, so he fetches the small brown radio from his bedroom and sits back against the wall across from the mechanisms, turning the dial in search of static. 

It feels like contraband. He should've given it to Mikaele, he knows. Items like these fetch quite a price in certain circles. 

The cigarette slowly burns, unprompted, between his lips as he listens carefully for the proper level of distortion. He doesn't necessarily want there to be nothing; the faint echo of a voice, he has learned, is actually more effective than a complete lack of it. He goes through the frequencies, some of them - most of them - disgustingly familiar, until he is just about in the right spot--and before he knows it, the radio is broadcasting with perfect clarity a programme he's never heard before. 

It's a woman talking. She sounds quite monotone, but with an unsettled edge to it that makes it clear she's not happy about what she's saying. 

"And that's why I haven't really taken any risks since my last boyfriend. I'm not a particularly wary person, I mean... as I said, and I go out on dates just fine. I suppose it's hard to believe I'll find anyone who'd be as... understanding as he was. He had his own set of troubles, and I guess... for some time, I thought we both lacked something. I know that's stupid. He's not... I mean, it was wrong to think that, but it was years ago, and I was projecting. And now I'm just... I'm worried nobody will accept me like he did."

Peter scrunches his nose and goes to change the frequency, possibly give the dial a good hard turn and remember to never listen to this ridiculous new programme again, but then he hears a noise. 

A low, falsely empathetic hum. 

"So, yeah," the woman says, "That's it from me." 

Another hum, like one a predator might let out upon spotting easy prey. "M-hmm, thank you, Lacking in London."

Peter drops the radio. 

It bounces a bit on the metal flooring, but keeps going, unharmed. 

"I'm always delighted to hear about your broken, mangled hearts, and - of course - to help in any way I can," the speaker continues, "Now, my dear, it sounds to me like you know what you have to do, but you would rather appreciate some encouragement." A faint sigh that sends shivers up Peter's arms. "We are all flawed creatures. That doesn't--"

He snatches it back up and turns it off. 

For a few long seconds, he sits in silence, staring at the radio in his hands. The nightmare of what has happened is still dawning on him, coming in waves, washing over him again and again until all he can think about is the light.

He pulls himself to his feet and wraps his coat tighter around his middle, making his way up the clanging stairs. The gallery is illuminated, shadows pressed flat to just the edges of the room. As Peter circles the lantern, he realizes that all is in order - and keeps a close eye on the light as he thinks back to what just occurred.

His heart hurts, but the light doesn't flicker. 

He finds it funny, in a dark, cruel sort of way. He has to assume Elias lost his job; he couldn't possibly imagine the man picking up running a late night radio show of his own free will, especially not one centred on... that. Elias’ tone had been, from beginning to end, laced through with that aspartame kindness that doesn't sound quite fake, but most certainly not real; closer to politeness than actual compassion, like a teacher might speak to a student they do not like.

Another thought. Perhaps it hadn't been Elias at all. It's been a year, and Peter's sure he has forgotten much of Elias' voice and character, and completely lost any idea of what his face had looked like. It's possible he was mistaken. 

There's really only one way to find out--but not tonight. 

He sets the radio aside and breathes deeply, running his hand down his face and wiping the sweat from his eye sockets. He's not sure if this is divine punishment, or just a cruel joke--either way, he probably deserves it. 

Despite what's been assumed about him, he has never considered himself one to linger and regret. He considers, now, that perhaps he was mistaken. That perhaps he does have hooks still stuck in his skin. 

The radio is silent. It would've been so easy to hand it over to Mikaele along with everything else. 

*

When the next week comes, Peter is at the radio before the sun is even down. He listens to some static, cleans, heats up dinner on the small, dusty stove. He never quite learned how to properly clean a stove.

He's just about finished with the dishes when he hears a faint noise. 

It sounds like elevator music, mild and repetitive, and after about fifteen seconds it fades out to make room for a voice; soft and close to the microphone, teasing to the ears.

"Good evening, and welcome to Eye Contact. If you have a story to tell, we will listen." He says it as if it's the height of grace. His tone becomes slightly more natural as he moves on. "You'll forgive me if I'm not quite myself tonight, my dear beholders. Yes, I know, it's very alarming; 'Jonah, what's wrong?' you're asking. You're in a panic." Peter rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic, yet still deadpan delivery, then does a double take - 'Jonah'? "To tell you the truth, I received a rather disheartening letter earlier today. My dear beholders, what do I always tell you? Anyone can call me. If you have a story to tell, I will listen. It's really rather simple." Peter blinks at the fraction of genuine warmth that managed to creep into that last statement.

It's Elias. Even though the speaker clearly referred to himself by another name, with every word Peter becomes more and more certain of his identity.

"With that being said, let's listen. Our first call tonight is from Daring in Dipton..." 

As the show goes on, Peter realises that his previous guess had been inaccurate. It's not a romance show at all; it seems to be something of a free-for-all, with people calling for a myriad of reasons ranging from wanting advice to telling the story of how they first fell to one of the powers. The only thing the calls have in common is that they are all, without an exception, fascinating. 

The broken, mangled hearts segment is apparently a once-a-month late night special. Elias mentions it offhandedly in regards to something that was said the week prior, though Peter is too far gone in his intent listening to really pick up the meaning. It's about there that he has to turn the radio off and hide it in a cupboard, his nape sticky with sweat and throat tight. 

He almost feels as if he ought to have been caught and punished. He feels like he should be a man on the run from his own conscience, but the frightening element is that he feels no guilt. There is nothing within him but that overwhelming, pulling loneliness, as if someone were tearing him apart centimetre by centimetre. He feels sick to his stomach, lost, angry. He wants to break the damn thing into pieces. 

When he wakes up the next morning, the light is fine. It is, admittedly, dimmer than before - but it's neither flickering nor actually weak. It's actually less of a strain on the eyes, and so Peter quells the panic rising in his stomach, deciding no long-term harm has been done. 

Administration did not, unfortunately, overlook the fact his light went out the year before. They had not shared the mechanic's lighthearted acceptance, either, and for the next three days Peter was overwhelmed by calls and visitors--but his light did not as much as waver. He had declined more calls. The only person still authorized to reach the phone in his bedroom is the Archivist, and even he had mercifully let him off the hook.

Once every three months, Peter composes a report of his mental wellbeing. That's what he does now, sweating and nervous, writing on a piece of scrap paper rather than the document itself, noting either 'always' or 'never', or something in between. It's a cheery, inelegant sort of document. It reminds Peter too much of Elias' customer-service voice. 

_Do you think about killing yourself?_ it asks. 

Peter writes 'sometimes', then crosses it out and corrects to 'rarely'. Then, he crosses that out too and writes 'never', very glad he chose to draft his replies.

His heart aches. 

There are so many enticing brands of pain locked within this new loneliness. Gone is his numbness, the quiet days spent half-content, watching the sea and feeling the wind in his hair. He has never considered himself a happy person, but now he knows with staggering certainty that he is miserable. He deeply wishes he could go back to never having known it, to once against exist in a state where he misses nothing, remembers nothing. Where no voice stands out from the others. 

He does not allow himself to wallow. He does not. He does not sit and do nothing; he is always cleaning something, or even just focusing on the weather, the fields, the cracks in the walls. Anything that is not the voice. 

*

It’s so very unfair. He considers it only when mindless, drinking his morning coffee sip by sip, not really registering the taste. He begins to prefer days—during the days, at least, there is no temptation to turn the radio on. It’s the evenings he has to look out for, and the nights, when he begins to think about what Elias might be talking about. He begins to wonder, again and again, how in the world a successful administrator like him changed careers so rapidly. 

On nights like that, he stands by the railing and smokes, one cigarette after another, his breath mingling with the fog. 

It's very clear Elias' new profession feeds the Eye just about as well, if not better, than his last one. He's probably quite content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, there we are. two more (or possibly three) chapters to go; thank you so much for reading. lmk your thoughts :)


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, thank you for your support. I'm sorry I havent been replying to comments. Life is busy. But I read them and they really make me so happy.  
> in case I forgot to mention, thanks to ink, for the helpful (or just hilarious) suggestions and comments.
> 
> warning for Elias being Elias, Peter being Peter (=they're both awful), blood and injury, and descriptions of a victim of the corruption. and the usual stuff too. Also, this is where that past Gertrude/Elias comes in. You have been warned.

Two months later, Peter turns on the radio. 

He puts it down on the kitchen counter and prepares himself a late dinner. It wouldn’t be his fault if it kept playing; he forgot, or maybe just focused too hard on what he was doing. Maybe the radio wasn’t on at all. How should anyone know? How, at the very end of the world, at the top of a lighthouse hanging haphazardly above a dead sea, surrounded by nothing but fields and meadows, should anyone know? 

Peter’s hand slips and the knife goes into his finger. Blood gushes from the small but deep cut, over the potatoes, staining them all a rusty red. He swears. 

Elias would know. Elias might know this very second. Hell, Elias might know everything. Everything. 

He feels nauseous and decides dinner is, quite literally, off the table. He considers throwing the potatoes off the gallery, but decides he’ll worry about them later. For now, he rushes to the sink and puts his hand under running water. His blood dilutes into an orangey pink against the metal, and before it’s all washed away, his wound has already closed. 

He breathes deeply. Over the ringing of the irregular stream against the sink, he hears voices. 

"You’re breaking up a bit, Slaughter in Soho."

“Oh,” another voice pipes up, “Sorry. Better now?” 

“Perfect. Now,” Elias purrs, “You were saying?”

“My friend said you’ll take any call,” she sounds wary.

“That's right.”

“It’s silly.” 

“Surely not, miss, if you want to tell us,” Elias sighs softly, with understanding, “Tell us, darling, tell us. You might feel better.”

Peter smiles at the gentle cruelty in that. 

“I… I met a girl.”

Elias sounds like he’s muffling a delighted giggle. “Ah.”

“I don’t know what to do. We… I like her. I barely know her, but I feel this connection with her. We talk for hours at a time. I don’t believe in fate, but this is—it’s strange. She doesn’t even know my name, but she can finish my sentences, she… gets me. I feel like I’ve known her for years.”

Elias gives a quiet laugh. “How in the world doesn't she know your name?”

The young woman clears her throat. 

“We met through… we met in an anonymous meeting. Like, uh, a support meeting. We still use the fake names, even when we go out to grab lunch, or even for a walk. The thing is, um, Jonah… I don’t know how to tell her I want to get to know her. Actually get to know her. I feel insane. I’m so afraid this isn’t as special to her as it is to me. Because, she's... I don't know.” 

He makes a sound of consideration. “Hmm… no, that’s not all.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Keep going, my dear. The support meeting you met in. You’re doing very well. Tell me,” he breathes, “Everything.” 

The young woman clears her throat. 

“I don’t think I want to.” 

"Don't you?” Elias whispers, “Why were you in a meeting, if not to tell others what you went through?” 

“I…” her voice trembles, “I suppose, but… there was no audience--"

"There's no audience here, either," he coaxes, "Listen. It's quiet." 

She makes a muffled, sad sound, like a sob.

"You can tell me," he urges, warm and compassionate and false to the core, "Go on." 

"My dad works…" she begins, then takes a few seconds. "My dad… My dad… worked with... … I… I told her…" 

“Now, breathe, my dear,” Elias interrupts, sounding almost comically bored, “Keep going.” 

“I..." she says, "I told her something. Something awful."

Elias makes a reassuring sound, and the floodgates open, all but unprompted. 

"It was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen, it—was supposed to be contained, but they got out, and I… I saw my dad's body… he was… like termites had—drilled all through him, like he was covered in holes, and his body was still breathing, but it wasn’t him breathing—and I told her… and she just stared at me. She just stared at me. Like she didn’t know how… like she didn't care." She sounds ready to cry, now. "She’s compassionate, and she’s kind, but she—she’s just so cold. I know it doesn’t make sense.” 

“We live in a beautiful world,” Elias is wistful, soft, rehearsed, “But it’s not perfect by any means. Not all of us were born to power, but everyone must accept it nonetheless. Maybe your sweetheart realised it earlier than you did.” 

"It wasn't fair." 

"Who are you to be the judge of that, dear?" he asks, quiet and amused. 

“You hear a lot of stories, Jonah,” she sniffs, “Have you ever heard of an accident like that?” 

Elias sighs. Peter realises, belatedly, that the format of the show is much different from last time; he doesn’t think Elias had allowed this much conversation to happen before.

“As you may know, I used to work in a small branch of Administration that dealt with lightkeepers along the coastline,” he says casually, and Peter's heart leaps to his throat, “It was far more bureaucracy than this, mostly because those of the Forsaken have a certain proclivity for jumping off high places. There are dangers to every kind of work under the powers, my dear.” 

“That doesn’t help.” 

“It’s not supposed to.” Elias’ smile is clear in his voice. “Have a good night. We'll hear our next caller in just a moment. And let's make it a gentleman, shall we? I don't want people to think my show is just for traumatised young women." 

Peter's thoughts to go the phone in his room. With every number Elias recites, he sears the shape of it into his memory and tries to picture a world in which he is not a coward. 

He is not the same. The peace he used to have is gone and replaced by something much more alive, much more turbulent. He doesn't feel like himself. 

He sits there, strained and angry, until something snaps within him. He grabs the radio; with quick, determined steps, he walks up to his bedroom, hand gliding over the rail. He leans over his desk and dials the numbers, one, two, three... with each one, he wonders if he got it right. With an unsteady hand, he raises the receiver to his ear and waits, eyes screwed shut and brow clouded. 

It comes unexpectedly, loud and clear - a woman's voice. 

"S-E Coast Radio, how can I help you?" 

Peter is at a loss for words. 

"I..." he begins, hesitates, "I had a question for your host." 

"M-hmm," the woman hums, "Name?" 

"Sorry?"

"Pseudonym," she corrects quickly, "It's not mandatory, just custom. Are you a long time listener?" 

Peter considers. "Not really, no. I don't have anything." 

"That's all right. When I say one, you're live."

"Wait, you'll just put me through?" he blinks, "Just like that?"

"Of course," she coos, "Jonah's a man of his word. Three, two, one." 

He hears a sound and then--and then there's a soft, long hiss in his receiver. 

"Hello?" Elias' voice--facetiously kind and inviting, doubled by the radio on the left hand side of his desk. Peter is silent. "Go on, my dear, don't be shy." 

Peter's pulse pounds in his ears. He doesn't want to imagine how many people will hear him; he tries to find his voice, but the hatred, the fear, the anger of being seen all come crashing down on him.

"Go on," Elias coaxes, "Tell me all about your broken heart." 

He looks frantically at the window, filled with the glaring white light, watches for any waver in its strength--

"Actually," he says, tight, and then forces a more jovial tone, "I have been wondering. Why don't you tell us about one of yours?" 

There is a deathly silence, both in the receiver and the radio, that drags on far too long. Finally, in a quiet, tense voice, Elias speaks. 

"Who is this?"

Peter quickly hangs up the receiver and leans back in his chair, breathing in the stale air of his bedroom. A mistake. A very, very big mistake. He can practically feel Elias' multiplied gaze crawling all over him. 

"Who am I to deny such an adoring audience," Elias says from the radio, almost flatly, but gradually regaining his lost momentum, "You're getting brave, my dear beholders. A broken heart of my own, well..." he sighs, "That's a prize I might have to save for next month." There's a chitter of equipment, a pause. "Ah. Rosie's telling me that... you'd be very happy to have your wish fulfilled. My, I wish I'd had time to write this down. Very well." He takes a breath. "Settle in, beholders, and prepare yourself for what is perhaps the most disappointing, short-lived attempt at a romance you've ever heard." 

Peter listens intently, hand under his chin. His heart hurts.

He's not sure what he's done; he's not even sure why. There is something he wants from Elias so badly, so desperately, that he can't even tell exactly what it is. 

Elias takes a breath.

"It was a few years ago, now, and I was still working within the Office itself, rather than on the fringes of Administration. I'm not a born Archivist, you see, and I don't find the workload attractive in the least." He chuckles, low in his throat. "She did, though. She was the Archivist, and I had never seen a creature better suited for the part." 

Peter blinks. 

"I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, so I shan't tell you her name, but if the Beholding tugs at you, you can find it easily enough. We met at work, as you might imagine. It was a dingy, musty place, eaten through by a sprawling network of corridors, each lined with shelves and files along the walls. Our archives were a mess. I don't think she ever grew to like it there," he wonders aloud, "But I did. I loved watching her work." 

Peter can't help himself anymore, and rolls his eyes, just in time to almost miss Elias add, 'It seems a theme', under his breath.

"She had this... poise," he continues, "A grace and control in the way she held herself that made her a perfect servant of the Eye. She was always aware of how she was perceived, and modeled herself as easily as if she were made of clay. And she didn't like me. I should say that--she didn't like me at all." He laughs, more earnestly than he perhaps intended, because he ends up choking back the sound. "But she did admire me. For my talents, if nothing else, and for my conversation. She had very little interest in actually listening to me, but she let me talk, and I delighted in it. 

"We used to play draughts. I used to let her win. I didn't do it to patronize her, you understand, she was a good decade older than me, if not in years then in disposition. Oh, I should've mentioned that. You see, this is why we write things down." He sighs. "Well, as you might imagine, we were the talk of the Office. Meeting for our games almost every day, often playing over lunch, constantly talking..." A pause. He makes a hesitant noise. "Mostly... talking.” Another pause. “I do not fall in love, you see. I don't believe I'm capable of it. I... settle, gradually, into fondness, and even that is a rare and elusive beast. But, indeed, she was someone I had grown to admire, and from the sheer amount of time she spent in my company, I gathered she felt some affection for me, as well.”

As Peter listens, he begins to feel more and more disconnected, as if his ship were sailing further and further into the open sea. 

“Affection,” Elias repeats. “That's a strong word. I should say it was rather that she couldn't stand anyone else's company, and I, at least, kept her on her toes. She was sharper than she let on, and sometimes it seemed like the world bored her. On some mornings, I'd find her smoking on the balcony, right there in the freezing cold, entirely unaware. I got the habit from her, actually." He sighs, slow and regretful, and Peter imagines him rubbing at his face. 

"When you got to know her, she could be hilarious, in her own, cold kind of way; she kept me good company, sometimes for so long that I could not stand her gaze, and I would turn to her hands.” 

Something shifts. It no longer hurts to listen to him, and it’s not quite numbness, either. Peter drinks word after word, stirred and hungry.

“And,” Elias takes a breath, “When she… passed away, I did miss her. Perhaps only in the way a cat might miss a mouse, but still. I did.” He hesitates, then sets off again with a completely new tone. “Well, not a dry eye in the house, I’ll bet. What a pleasure, beholders, and what a night. It would be cruel to leave you on such a note, but I believe we could all use a moment to reflect; I will see you after the break.” 

An eerie, sweet music box tune flows from the radio, and Peter sits up in his chair as if awoken from a dream. 

He doesn’t manage to string together a conclusion to all of that. His mind is full of the familiar voice, words pressing together and overlapping, as if he’s trying to remember the whole speech at once. At some point, it hurts to just think, so he lies face down in his bed and tries to ignore the singular words, ripped from their context, bubbling to the surface and sounding out in the cavity of his mind. He covers his ears with his hands and falls asleep there, fully clothed, on top of the covers. 

*

The next morning, the light is blinding. 

Peter slams the door shut before as much as a slither leaves the room, but it’s still enough to leave a long, shimmering stripe along his vision. He closes his eyes and rubs them intently, then blinks away the silvery shimmer, extremely relieved to find that it begins to go away after a few seconds. 

Wary of the door, he makes his way back down the stairs, still battling a spot of grey in his right eye. He doesn’t fully process just how mortifying his ordeal is until he’s reached his desk, where the phone awaits, ready for him to call in an issue. 

He doesn’t want to. 

Nobody ever warned him the light might get too bright. Will it burn? Will it—will it cause light pollution? What’s the procedure for a light that shines with all the ferocity of a small star, instead of dying at the slightest hint of care? He can’t clean it. He can’t even enter the gallery. It had blinded him, but he had felt no heat on his face, instead a soft, slight chill, the kind that flows from deep underground. 

He swallows and considers his options. He can call Administration—subject himself to more scrutiny, officially recorded and stored in the hundreds of files at the Office—or he can… try to dim it. 

The radio whirrs quietly, spitting low static into the room. 

If Elias were to say something to him—to him—just once—would it help? It’s so hard to say. His call is what made things worse. He frowns, scratches the side of his nose. What had Elias done last time, to make the light flicker and die? 

The answer makes itself clear in his mind. He had cared.

Peter rolls his eyes and groans, wondering what he's done to deserve this. His whole life, he has been nothing if not a loyal servant to the Forsaken, even if he had done it in a way his family did not necessarily approve of. 

So what now? For the first time in his life, he considers what he might be, if not one of the Lonely, and quickly pushes the thought away. At this point, it’s more than likely such a change would simply kill him. Nobody attempts it without good reason. 

Besides, he doesn’t want to. He’s always been content within the Forsaken, and the only exception – the only thing he ever reached for – agreed it was better for him to remain. And he doesn’t want to leave, exactly. He doesn’t want to change anything. If he could just have one day – one day, maybe just one hour, each year, to talk to Elias. Even just talk. 

He is beginning to understand that he is nothing short of a paradox. He exists, an error, an unknown quantity, on the verge of humanity--and pretends. 

*

He calls again. 

When the woman picks up, he wastes no time. 

"I have to talk to Elias," he says. 

"Who is this?" 

He scowls. "It's urgent." 

She hesitates. "We don't have an Elias who works here." 

"Jonah, then," Peter sighs, unwilling to get into the argument, "Just let me talk to him."

"We aren't currently on air, I'm afraid," she says in a practiced, falsely pleasant voice, "You can leave a pseudonym, and call back later." 

"No, I have to talk to him now," Peter argues, "I know him." He doesn't. 

Rosie, is the name. Rosie clears her throat. 

"By what name did you know him, again?" 

"Elias Bouchard," he growls, annoyed, "I'm one of the lightkeepers he used to supervise. We were friends."

"Your full name, please," Rosie says. 

"Peter Lukas." 

"Jonah!" she calls out, her voice removed and coming from a distance, as if she'd leaned away, "Do you know anyone called Peter Lukas?"

Peter swallows. He hears footsteps. 

"I can redirect it to your office--," Rosie begins, but then there's a harsh sound of the phone being jostled, and a new voice takes her place. 

"Hello?" 

Peter's stomach drops. 

"Hello," Elias repeats, with less certainty this time.

"Hello," Peter echoes. 

There is a silence. Peter is too desperate to hang up. 

"Rosie," Elias snaps, and then she's making sounds of surprise and displeasure as he most likely shoos her out of her seat, accompanied by a series of rustles and shuffles. The chair creaks when he sits. 

"I suppose I should say 'sorry', for your last show," Peter says. 

"How did you know it was me?" 

"Are you joking?" Peter exhales, "I'd know your voice anywhere."

He realises too late what he has said. His nape burns and he runs his fingers through his hair, holding back the urge to curse. 

"I recognised you, as well," Elias sighs, finally, "But I scarcely believed it. What in the world are you doing, Peter?" 

He finds he doesn't want to explain. It seems too much and too unbelievable, and for now, he just wants to talk. 

"What are _you_ doing?" he deflects, "Hosting a radio show? I thought you a devout bureaucrat." 

"I was," Elias grits, "But after that little fiasco with your light, I moved myself to the lowest branch of Administration. Entertainment." 

"You sound like you enjoy it," Peter objects. 

"What sort of host would I be otherwise?" he laughs, once, curtly, "I am a professional, and I serve the Eye. Nothing else to it." 

Peter hums. "I don't believe you." 

"It's not a question of belief!" Elias snaps, then takes a breath. "Why are you calling, Peter? I thought I impeded your work. I thought that's why we--"

"Go ahead, take a look," Peter says, "Tell me if it's flickering."

He takes his time, and Peter sits glued to the phone, listening to him breathe. 

"Well?" Peter asks. 

"I can't see you." 

Shivers run down his arms and thighs. 

"Look at the light." 

"If I must." He sighs. "Yes, I suppose it's steady, though it seems like it's weakening. You're aware of this?" 

"It's fine, for now," Peter brushes it off, "It'll brighten once you hang up. We have time." 

"Do we?" for the first time, Elias' voice is soft. "For what?"

Peter breathes, quiet and slow. He has things that he has thought, and wanted to say. After repeating them a thousand times in his mind, it's not as difficult as he thought it would be. "I missed you."

There is a worrying pause. Then, a cleared throat. "That seems unlikely." 

"It's true. Or it was, for a split second, just the once."

"Don't sound so grim, Peter," Elias shifts audibly, "It doesn't suit you." 

Peter smiles. "Tell me if the light gets too dim, will you?" 

"I will." 

"Talk," he mutters, "Just talk." 

"You can listen to me talk on the radio," Elias tuts, appalled. 

"It's not the same."

"Well, I'll pretend I'm not hurt, as I understand time is short." He hums. "I have been well, Peter. This new position is beneath me, but I'd be lying if I said I find absolutely no enjoyment in it. It's my nature to feed off this sort of thing, and there is so much of it to be had where personal life, and even love, is concerned." 

Hearing him say it, so sweetly and easily interlaced with what he wants, what he needs - it's almost too much. He is genuine and true in everything that he is. 

Elias is a sharp, cruel creature, and above all - beautiful.

"Ah," Elias says, startled, "Hmm." 

Peter straightens up, heart pounding. "What?" 

He looks out the window, only to see the damn light spitting sparks and flickering madly outside, doubled and tripled in the mist. 

"I have to go," he says. 

"No," Elias snaps, "No, what about me?"

Peter blinks. "What about you?" 

"Tell me something," he says, almost authoritatively, "Tell me anything. Let me hear your voice."

"What's that?" Peter takes the receiver away from his face, unable to hold back a grin, "You're breaking up." 

He hangs it on the hook and pushes the whole contraption further up the desk, away from himself. The light outside gradually settles into stillness. 

He needs to be more careful. 

*

Martin's truck pulls up one day. Peter isn't sure what day of the week it is, or which month, or how long it's been since the last delivery. The young man comes trotting through the grass, package held sturdy in his arms, and gives a strange, mopey smile as he approaches the door. 

"Hey, Peter," he says.

"Martin," Peter nods from the doorway, cigarette tickling his lips as he speaks. He catches some of the smoke he's exhaling. "How long has it been, if you don't mind?"

He makes no movement to take the box. Martin shifts under its weight. 

"Three months," he says. 

"Uh-uh," Peter puffs more smoke. 

"Still no need for food?" Martin asks, with some degree of worry. "There's canned stuff in there, and some, uh, pears." 

"I do eat, sometimes," Peter assures. 

"All right." 

Martin hands the box to him outright, and Peter takes it. 

"Cigarettes?" he asks. 

"They're in there," Martin promises, "And some wine, too, I think." 

Peter raises an eyebrow. 

"I don't drink." 

"I know," he blinks, "But I don't pack the boxes, you know?" 

"Right," Peter squints at him. Finally, after well over a year, he musters the courage. "Martin, can I ask you about something?" 

Martin goes a bit pale, as if reminded of the fact that he does, in fact, find Peter unsettling--as he's supposed to. 

"Yeah?" he asks, voice weak. 

"Was Elias fired?" Peter finishes his cigarette and puts it out on the doorframe, stuffing the butt into a gap along with multiple others, "Because of me?" 

Martin looks fearful. 

"Um, no, I... really don't think so," he says, scratching his neck, "I mean, I was under the impression he left on his own." 

"Any idea why?" 

"Not really," Martin shrugs, "I could ask Jon. They used to get on quite well, I think." 

"Did they stay in touch?" 

"Oh, no," Martin laughs, short and awkward, "Not really." 

Peter nods, all faux compassion. "None of you liked him much, did you?" 

Martin makes an apologetic face, but says nothing. 

"Oh, well," Peter smiles. 

"Why are you asking now? I-I mean... what brought this on?" Martin blinks. 

Peter exhales. He feels like he just wasted that cigarette. 

"Thank you, Martin," he says, "I'll see you next time."

*

"I didn't appreciate that," Elias says, exactly one month after their last conversation.

"But I did. Very refreshing. After a while, sitting in this lighthouse starts feeling like..." Peter considers, "Eating your own flesh." 

He doesn't know what to say next. His chest… his chest feels weak and tired. 

"I…" Elias starts, but trails off, and doesn't continue. 

Peter pulls in a breath.

"Why 'Jonah'?" 

"Hmm?" Elias makes a surprised noise. 

"Why call yourself that?" Peter asks, "Why use an alias at all? Don't you like being perceived?" 

"It's purely practical," Elias defends, "And, I admit, part of the host persona. But it's not an alias. It's my name." 

He doesn't get it. "Your name?" 

"My original name, Peter," Elias says, gently annoyed.

"Oh." He thinks for a moment. "Do you prefer it?" 

"No," Elias sighs, "No, it's linked too tightly to the show, now."

It's fair. Peter lets it go. 

The calls aren't enough. It's more than clear. The calls are a fraction of what he wants, and every second spent talking is a second the light swells, falls, swells, falls, like a heartbeat. 

"I don't remember your face anymore," Peter says, almost an hour in, "I thought I'd remember it, but I didn't." He feels relaxed and gentle. He feels he could say just about anything, if appropriately coaxed. 

"I could send you a photograph," Elias says. 

"No, that's too much. That's far too much." 

"I could make it saucy." 

Peter laughs, snorting. "No, you wouldn't." 

"You're right, I wouldn't. I've become slightly uptight in my old age." His voice is warmed by a smile. "Oh, but, rest assured--I knew how to have fun, once." 

"You make me feel inadequate," Peter says lightly, tipping his head to the side and closing his eyes, "I never quite figured out what to do with the money my family kept pooling into my bank account. I never once threw a party. I visited my fair share, of course, but I wish I had more to look back on with contempt." 

"You can't possibly tell me you spent your whole youth bored," Elias teases. 

"I wasn't bored. But, if I were to tell you, you'd probably think I'm trying to save face." 

"I could just look," Elias warns, with that same mocking edge to his voice that tells Peter he won't. He's beginning to suspect Elias enjoys needling people the traditional way much more. "It's freeing, in a way. Like having your hands tied." 

Maybe it would be. Most likely not. 

"I used to sail. I had a boat in the marina," Peter says, "And I used to take it out every other night."

"Her." 

"What?" 

"Take her out. 'She' for boats." 

"Oh. Right." Peter blinks. "Wonder why that is." 

"'Like a woman, a ship is unpredictable'," Elias quotes. 

"Ah," Peter says, good-natured, "Of course. How didn't I think of that?" 

"How, indeed." Elias snickers. "Speaking of which--I forgot to ask you, but what did you tell Rosie?" 

"What, last month?" 

"Yes. She has not looked at me the same since." 

Peter strains to think back to the exchange. 

"Nothing much. That I was a friend of yours." 

Elias goes quiet for a very long time. Peter sits with the receiver, wondering if he'd hung up, but doesn't put it down. 

"Peter," the voice says, finally. It's quiet and sure. 

"Yes?" 

"I do not have friends."

Peter nods. "Oh, I'm aware. I was just trying to--"

"Friendship is shallow and doomed to turn bitter if not made a priority. And what you might call the particular brand of friendship we have developed, well..." he sighs, "It tends to be even more short-lived." 

On another day, Peter would've taken the cue to talk about it that way, not to steer too deeply into those waters. But the old, strong pain - familiar, beloved pain - of being left alone had taken root in his heart when he was only a child, and it had grown so entwined within the flesh of the weakly beating muscle that Peter never quite learned to separate it from himself. And he cannot do it now. 

"You've been in love before," he says. 

Elias exhales. He stays quiet for a few more seconds, and Peter is furious at the waste of time. 

"I don't like that phrase," Elias says, "As if you can be in love or out of love. It projects clarity where there are only muddied waters."

"Your Archivist."

"I truly don't appreciate this, Peter," he scoffs, "Yes, I cared for her, and no, it did not matter to me in the least. I learned to accept my affinity for contradiction a long time ago." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means I am complex. I have lived as many different people. Different genders. I've loved different people, as well. If I were to analyse whether I am a man or a woman, there would be no objective truth, as I have lived as both and found neither particularly pleasant. It's the same with love. I simply don't know, and I don't care to choose. I exist as something other." 

He gets shivers at that. He doesn't know if it's the words themselves or the nature of the creature baring itself to him so readily, so openly, and seemingly without second thought.

"What about care, then," Peter says, his throat dry.

"Yes, I just told you I did. I valued her very highly, and I wanted to hear her thoughts on everything. I wanted... I was fascinated by her." 

It's so painful to listen to. Elias, until recently, had been ever so simple. The man in the phone. Every week, readily available, willing to give his time and attention to Peter without outside interference or interruption. 

Everything about this new situation is difficult. Peter isn't sure if he should be regretting having found him again. 

"You said she didn't reciprocate, at least not openly," he says, voice hoarse.

"I didn't say that. I said she didn't like me. That didn't stop us." 

"How does that work?"

"Why are you asking about this?" Elias hisses. "I have been more than accommodating." 

"I can understand she was important. You knew her a long time." 

Elias hesitates. "Important?" 

"Important enough to choose as a story to tell..." Peter begins, but he is interrupted. 

"...And not you?" 

It's Peter's turn to fall deathly silent. 

"You think..." Elias cuts himself off. "You cannot tell me you wanted me to relay everything that I had felt for you to the entire south coast." 

"Maybe then I'd grow to hate it." Peter is mild and calm, and he almost feels like smiling, though his heart is breaking. "And to hate you." 

Elias considers that for a moment.

"You're more cruel than I thought," he says, matter-of-factly, and the line goes dead. 

*

The music choices for Elias' show are always equally boring. Though not quite elevator music this time, Peter finds he's reminded of commercials. He hadn't watched many of them, but what time he spent in front of the bulky, silver-screened TV had stayed deep in his mind. There is something more honest about black and white. People are clearer and more defined, often more beautiful, their blemishes or imperfections disappearing in the burnt white light. 

That's what he thinks about, listening to the opening music, and the impression carries over to Elias' voice opening the evening. It's a cold, windy night to be sitting on the gallery, but Peter manages it all the same. He keeps a lantern with him, though it's hardly necessary with the light so close above. The fog is illuminated by the glow. 

Elias sounds just the same as always. 

"What a long day, beholders," he says, "A grey, chilly day, and a perfect night to spend curled up by the fireplace with a cat in your lap, listening to the rain drum against your window. There's a picture for you. Are you settled in?" A pause. "Let me tell you about my day. I went to the Isle of Wight, to visit an old friend. It was rotten weather for that trip, but the mood struck me and I thought that if things went poorly, I could always use the show as an excuse to head home earlier. As it happens, I ended up staying much longer than intended," he sighs, "Though she favours the Eye, as you might expect, she has a curious relationship with the other powers, and I thought I might get her opinion on a matter of great personal importance to me. She was rather helpful. You see, the question arose within me recently--can a creature of the Forsaken love? Or perhaps, more importantly, should they? The answer appears to be an obvious 'no'. However, as I presented the issue to Mary, she told me something rather interesting; she said, 'Jonah, if they didn't, could they really be lonely at all?'" 

Peter feels sick. The void abyss below is starting to look like a good place to put the damn radio.

"Melodramatic nonsense, I'm sure," Elias continues with a deep, exasperated sigh, "And I told her as much. But the more I thought about it, the more I considered how truly powerful one of the Lonely might become, if they were to spend their life loving in secret. It is the antithesis of connection--to be alienated by your love, frightened for your faith, and, most importantly--ashamed of yourself." 

In a moment of complete and utter fear, Peter grabs the radio and hurls it into the dark.

It takes him a moment to register what he's done. He touches his chin in shock, tries to calculate whether he should go down to the lowest floor, try to see if he can get it somehow--he quickly realises it'll have to wait until morning. 

He buries his face in his hands and marvels, for a second, at his own stupidity. Is he an animal? Why did he do that? 

He almost wants to laugh. He laughs. It's not quite right, but he can't stop. 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! everything is fine, but my month long break from existing will, unfortunately, continue. thank you all so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy this final chapter. please tell me your thoughts after! :) heed the warnings, same as usual, but particularly suicide ideation/discussion.
> 
> edit: repost (?) since something goofed the first time. <3

It's a blot of glare reflecting off metal in the sunshine, and then it's a car. Then it's a figure, coming closer, and then it's Mikaele Salesa towering above him, arms crossed on his chest. Peter is sitting with his feet on the threshold, the tiny remnant of a cigarette burning his fingers. 

"Peter?" Mikaele asks, looking down at him. 

Peter points in what he assumes to be the right direction. "There's a radio in the grass, over there. It's broken. Could you get it for me?" 

The cigarette finally melts to nothing. He takes out another one and lights it as Mikaele circles the lighthouse, coming back around with the radio in his hands. It's slightly skewed and one speaker has popped out. 

"What did it do to deserve this treatment?" Mikaele asks, amused. 

"I need it fixed," Peter says. He pulls himself to his feet and straightens his coat. "As soon as possible. If you could get one of yours on it..."

Mikaele carefully weighs the radio in his hand. His eyes scan the object with all the experience and attention of a professional, and Peter feels his heart sink. 

"I'll cut you another deal," Mikaele hums, "How much?" 

"It's not for sale," Peter says. 

"It'll fetch a good price. It practically…" he thinks for a moment, remembers the word, "reeks of the Forsaken." 

Peter gives him a look. Mikaele opens his mouth, then closes it. 

"Right. You don't care." He smiles. "I'll be getting this fixed for you, I suppose," he raises an eyebrow, "I'll send it back with the list of expenses once it is done." 

Peter reaches for the radio. "I'm not trusting you with it after you only just tried to buy it off me." 

In his boyish distrust, he half-expects Mikaele to take a step back, out of reach, and wave the radio over his head in victory. He does not, of course; but he does not place it in Peter's waiting hand, either. 

"Come, Peter, have I told you a lie?" he asks. 

He hesitates.

Mikaele Salesa is most certainly one of a kind. He's calm, brilliant in conversation, and sharper than a razor. He's not a man you should trust, but he is not a man you cannot trust, either, in certain circumstances. 

"I need it back," Peter says, finally, "And I don't want Administration to hear about it." 

"That is my specialty," Mikaele grins, "I'll have it taken care of, of course. But given the nature of your patron, I have to ask what you've been doing with this thing. You don't listen to any stations, do you?" 

Peter considers lying, but as he said himself, Mikaele is nowhere near the Administration or the Board. There is very little risk in telling him - or not telling him - certain things. 

"Don't be stupid, now, Peter," Mikaele raises his eyebrows. 

"The light is on, isn't it?" 

Mikaele gives him a calm, even stare, but clearly doesn't care enough to get into a disagreement over it. 

"It'll be dealt with," he sighs, slightly annoyed, "You can calm down. Any more smuggled contraband for you, while I am at it?" 

Peter thinks. "No. No need." 

"Suit yourself." He turns, and goes. Peter watches him walk away, as is his habit.

It feels like he's throwing parties every night, with the turnout in this place. 

*

The silence is the worst anguish he's suffered in decades. He is going crazy. He is going insane. 

It's the silence that gets to you, really. If there were a name for it all, for the worst of it, the thing that filled the corridors of his childhood home and the thing that stood like a wall between him and his mother and the thing that filled the holes his siblings left in the world, it would be the silence. 

He sits on the gallery with his head low. Everything he has ever lost, he has lost to the quiet, gentle void. It seems a curse upon his family, upon him, and - of course - the greatest of blessings. Their faith. 

He would give anything to see Elias again. He would give his life, readily, he would even let him be the one to take it--if it meant just for a moment being reminded of what his face looks like.

*

After three weeks, he breaks, and tries to call. Rosie tells him he can talk to Elias later, certainly; if he has a story to tell. Anger flares up in him with a new and sickened flame. He gives his name, but it does nothing to change her mind. In the end, he resigns himself to call during the show. 

"Alone at Sea," Elias reads out, in a brilliant showman's voice, "Can you hear me?" 

"I have something to tell you," Peter says. 

"That's why I'm here," there's barely a stutter. 

Peter winces at the shimmering presence of hundreds of ears listening to him speak. He can feel it like bugs slithering over his skin.

"No, it's just for you." 

Elias inhales, falsely amused. "I run a show here, sir." 

"Please." 

"Go on," Elias says, low, "Tell me. You've fed on me before, you know. It's only fair." 

Peter grits his teeth. Fine. Fine. He clenches a fist against the desk until his joints ache. Every muscle in his body is tense. He will drown the man in what sustains him. And if he destroys himself with it--well, what does it matter?

"All right," he says lightly, "Listen carefully."

Is the price too great? Is it revenge? He has gotten so horribly bad at discerning his own feelings. All he wants to do--all he knows how to do--is hurt. 

He sighs. His voice is calm and level when he speaks.

"I love you. You're the only person who matters to me. The rest of the world could burn, for all I care, but I love you, and I will love you for the rest--"

"Christ, Peter!" something thuds and clangs, and there's a short, mechanical beep as he is forcibly disconnected. 

The satisfaction of having made Elias panic flows through his body like a warm wave, and remains there for a few seconds before the horror and humiliation of what he has done to himself begin to sink in. 

He sits there for a few moments, not quite processing it. It's as if he can see a weight falling on him, but not feel it. 

He's growing distantly aware of the fact the window off to his side is beaming white into his room, casting a square in pure light onto the opposite wall. He looks at it, then at his hands. 

They're getting translucent. 

*

Everything is normal in the morning. He uses his hands, white and firm, to open a new water container and cook a canned meal on the stove. 

He eats, for the first time in what seems like years. The feel of the spoon in his mouth is alien and awkward.

As it stands, he’ll probably lose this job.

He’s not willing to accept it. He comes from a long line of lightkeepers, and he will not be the first one to fail. He is no different from his ancestors, he is a Lukas, he belongs here. This is all that he is, and he doesn’t want to be anything else.

Mikaele will be coming by eventually. He should probably prepare. Check on the light.

He drags himself up the stairs and to the lantern gallery, food forgotten in the kitchen. He feels feverish and tired, with a thin layer of cold sweat coating his forehead, and he once again finds the beginnings of something new and wrong coming over him.

He’s able to open the door to the top floor without getting blinded, which is promising. As he circles the blackout and makes his way to the lantern, he realises it’s surprisingly level – no flickering, no shaking, just a steady, white orb suspended in the cage.

After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and puts his hand through it. It stings his fingers with cold, but does not hurt, at least not in any way that matters. As he turns his hand, he watches the light pool in it like milk, creeping up to his wrist, under his sleeve.

He takes his arm back.

_Don’t be stupid, now. Don’t be stupid._

When the others went mad, was it like this? Is this how it went? It couldn’t have been; it takes quite some idiocy, to fall for your overseer. 

There's a purr of a vehicle outside. Mikaele has probably brought him his fixed radio; surprisingly early, but it's reason enough to go downstairs, so he does, pulling his coat on and cocking the collar to shield him from the wind. 

As he opens the door, he realises that the now-familiar thick, white fog has descended onto the fields around him. He can't see anything that's further than five metres away, spare for two distinct yellow headlights in the distance, and a shuddering lantern bobbing along the path to his lighthouse. After a moment, a figure emerges from the opaque void, shorter and thinner than Mikaele, dressed in a stiff, sharp dark coat that reaches his knees. He walks unsteadily on the soft wet earth, awkward in his polished dress shoes. 

Peter's heart begins to pound. 

"Peter!" he hears, just as Elias gets close enough to see clearly. He roughly pulls the scarf from his neck and walks up, lantern swaying in his hand; the flame inside it is almost dead.

He's alone, it seems. 

"You're here," Peter says, honestly surprised. 

Elias stops just short. His breath comes from his lips in clouds of vapour. He looks different, or perhaps Peter's memory is poor, but the grey is more plainly visible at his temples, and his cheeks more hollow. 

"Are you going to invite me in?" he asks, snappy, and Peter steps aside. 

He closes and locks the door behind them. Elias glances back at him, big, dark eyes unreadable, then goes about taking off his coat. Peter tries to take it from him, but fails, as Elias hangs it over his elbow and raises his eyebrows like a challenge. 

It's eerie. He's half-convinced he's dreaming. Perhaps he did kill himself, and this is what his mind offers, in his final stretched out seconds. 

"Why are you here?" Peter asks, fingers dropping from the final lock. 

"Multiple reasons, which we can get into once I've had some tea. I seem to recall you have a kitchen?" Elias props his hands up on his hips, looks around, then goes to rush up the stairs without any sort of instruction. Peter follows. 

"Elias." 

"Tea," he presses. 

They reach the kitchen, where Elias takes the chair and goes about removing his gloves, tugging them off one finger at a time. Peter puts the kettle on and just stands there, staring at him. 

"What?" Elias asks, crossing his legs. 

He's wearing a subtly patterned shirt and narrow trousers, and one of his hands is heavier by three rings of varying sizes. All have eyes on them. 

"You don't have to worry about me," Peter says. 

"I'm not." Elias waves a hand. "I know you're not stupid, but I also know the kind of oversight you get these days, which is to say: none." 

"I don't need oversight." 

"You didn't, perhaps, before I came into the picture." He sighs and crosses his arms on his chest, one foot bobbing up and down, up and down. 

It's overwhelming, watching him sit there, and talk, and speak in that way that Peter knows better than any other sound in the world. It's unlike any other experience he's ever had, finding that there is more of the same man, more to take in and breathe in and look at. 

Interestingly, he finds that despite his best efforts to hide it, Elias is looking at him as well. He watches out of the corner of his eye, from underneath his lashes, averting his gaze whenever he's caught but coming back seconds later. He is just as, if not more, curious. 

Peter brews the tea and gives him a cup. Elias takes a sip, frowns, and takes another.

It seems painfully silly, to sit like this - as far as the room will allow, pressed into opposing camps. To talk about work. 

There is nobody else here. 

"Do you know what's happening to me?" Peter asks. 

Elias nods, his nose bridge squeezed in his fingers. 

"Yes." 

Peter blinks, hiding his desperation. A hint of a smile plays around Elias' mouth, but disappears, replaced by regret. He takes another sip of his tea. 

He has such dark eyes. They seem to drill directly into Peter's soul and take him apart with the same ease a coroner cuts into a cadaver on his table. 

He stands, slowly, and walks up to Peter in a few steps. 

"And," he adds, "I'm here to help." 

"How can you possibly help?" Peter asks, tilting his head to the side, "Hmm?"

Elias breathes in, slow and deep, and for a moment looks like he might kiss him--but changes his mind. 

"You'll see." He takes him by the elbow. It's very strange, and not something he expected from Elias, for him to use touch. 

He leads him upstairs, looking around curiously, craning his neck back and forth like he's scanning his surroundings. Peter gives a heavy sigh. 

"Do you have anywhere we can sit?" Elias complains, as they come through the doorway to his room. 

Peter indicates the bed with his chin. 

Elias raises an eyebrow at him, then drops his coat on it, undoes the top button of his shirt and sits. He scoots up until his back is against the rounded stone wall and cushions his shoulders with the coat, legs elegantly crossed at the ankles. 

Peter goes to take the chair, but Elias makes an annoyed noise and pats the space next to him on the bed. 

Peter can't help himself; he laughs. Elias scowls at him. 

"Sit." 

Peter does, on the edge. His feet are planted firmly on the ground. 

"Closer," Elias snaps, patting the mattress again. 

He submits and pulls himself back, leaning against the wall beside Elias. He is left with a view of the cabinet, the dusty, unused bookshelf, and the window. 

"You'll get us both in trouble," Peter murmurs. 

"How many all-seeing employees do you think your branch of Administration has?" Elias asks, just as quietly, "You're sitting beside one of them, and the other is rather clueless. Anyway," he sighs, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Jon wouldn't give up a couple of old lovebirds like us." 

"Wouldn't he?" Peter blinks, glancing down at him. "You're certain?" 

He can't see all of Elias' face from this angle, just the hollow of his eye, his lashes, the line of his nose. He seems intent to hide his expression. 

"Quite certain. He also tends to follow regulations to a fault, which means he's probably not using his Sight at all outside of business hours." 

"It's not business hours?" 

"It's Sunday, Peter," Elias growls, properly annoyed now, "Now, be quiet. I'm still figuring out where to start." 

Peter is only growing more confused. "Start?" 

"The reason we met, I suppose. The oversight I was meant to provide." Elias snakes an arm around his elbow and rests his temple against his shoulder. He hugs his arm to his chest, and Peter can't quite believe he needs the comfort--but he says nothing. Their legs lie stretched out side by side on the bed, barely touching.

"Lightkeepers are fragile, Peter. You never had to worry about anything, given your family's proclivity for your patron, as well as your own talents, but most people are not wired for solitude. They do not lead a balanced, natural existence within the Forsaken, as you did--instead, they..." 

"Go mad?" 

"That's what I told you, yes, but do you know why?" 

Peter furrows his brow. 

"You were surprisingly close, you know. They begin to eat themselves," Elias says, low and horribly fascinated, "They lose sight of their task, and in a feverish effort to keep their Light, they begin to consume their own being. They stop eating their rations. They stop sleeping. They become soaked through with their own pain and misery, and slowly, either their mind gives out, or their body. Or both." Though he sounds satisfied, his grip on Peter's arm tightens. "I have seen it. I have even seen them fall, unexpectedly, to another power. The Spiral. Too Close. Anything. Sometimes, they just wither away to nothing, unnoticed."

It's frightening. Peter has never felt his own lack of knowledge so acutely, and though he's not easy to scare, his discomfort is quickly becoming difficult to ignore. He looks down, where Elias' other hand has come to rest over the bend of his elbow. He can feel the warmth there, too.

"Is that what you think I've been doing?" he asks. 

"You are burning brighter than you ever have," Elias says, low, "You're killing yourself." 

Peter swallows. "So why are you here? To kill my Light before it kills me?" 

"No," he curls closer to his side, almost possessively, "No. I'm here to feed you. It's all I can do for you, at this point." 

Peter blinks. "What?" 

"Do you have a cigarette?" 

"You want to smoke in here?" 

"Do you care?" 

Peter doesn't. With his free hand, he draws his cigarette box from his pocket and pops it open, allowing Elias to pull one free with his long, pale fingers. 

He puts it between his lips and raises his chin, and Peter takes the cue to produce his lighter. The flame barely warms his fingers, the burst of red doesn't register in his eyes. 

Elias takes one symbolic drag of the cigarette and passes it to him. 

"I'm going to miss you," he says. 

Peter has just drawn in a breath of smoke, and he now coughs it up with a stutter, spewing grey from his nose and mouth.

"No, don't do this," he manages. 

Elias takes the cigarette from him again and brings it to his mouth. "Every day that I don't see you, I'm going to miss you. That's what I was trying to tell you last time, though I understand I wasn't clear enough. That I would remember you." 

"Elias." 

"Shh." Smoke comes slithering out from between his lips. "I'm going to leave here, barely having held you, and I'm never going to allow myself to see you again." 

Peter feels it. Strong and potent, seeping into his very bones. Elias is forcing himself. All of it, at once. He takes back the cigarette and smokes in silence, letting him talk. 

"You won't miss me," Elias adds, calm and serene, "That's who you are. You're not hurt by it; it's not like you to be hurt by it." 

That's right. He does not feel pain, he does not feel love. He does not feel anything but contentment at a job well done, and cruel satisfaction at any fear he inflicts on the way. Every sheepish look Martin gives him, every day that the dust road stands empty.

Elias is talking again. Peter's half-convinced there's something supernatural about his voice, the way it captivates and lulls; he has a belated, silly moment of self-doubt, and he wonders if he has made a mistake. If his feelings are, perhaps--widespread. Shallow. Common. If everyone who has ever met Elias has felt this way.

No, but then again, who could stand Elias, really? Peter smiles at the thought; he does not have some imagined, perfected version of him in mind. Elias is manipulative, cruel, and irredeemably cryptic. He has a selfish sense of humour, he plays little jokes at the expense of others. He's a person nobody should have the displeasure of loving.

"But I will be hurt," Elias admits. He says these things calmly, as if he is simply accepting an unfortunate reality. "Oh, the pain I'll endure. It won't be often, but when it clutches me, I will be in pieces over you." 

Peter's heart is loud. The smell of smoke between them is thick and harsh. It is, admittedly, something he hasn't considered, and it fills him with what he can only describe as strength. He stays silent, half-focused on the words, half on the now-nagging presence of Elias by his side. 

He slowly realises the magnitude of it. The strength isn't fading. Again, he is faced with the horrifying knowledge that someone cares for him--loves him, even--but it no longer hurts him.

He is far more preoccupied with the deep, grey sadness which has taken root under all of Elias' humour and wit. He wonders how he never noticed. 

"And, as I am not, let us say, traditionally mortal--," Elias sighs, more happily, "Who knows? Perhaps I'll miss you long after you're dead. Can you imagine that?" He chuckles, but this time, there is a bitter undertone to it. "So stop being so selfish, Peter. Don't think of yourself. Think about me. Think about what you've done... to me."

*

It's dark when Elias leaves. Past midnight, actually, and Peter closes the door on instinct to keep out the chill, leaving himself only the sound of the engine to cling to as the car drives off. 

He sleeps soundly that night, and doesn't wake until well into the morning, when the sound of snow and rain drumming against his window brings him out of his sleep. 

He gets dressed, washes, and starts his day. 

He does it four more times. Then thirty. It's grey, easy, and mundane. 

On the thirty-sixth evening, he hears a loud honk outside, and gets up onto the gallery like a perched bird of prey to check who dares disturb him. 

It's Salesa's car, and Salesa beside it, just now slamming the door shut. He's barely visible through the falling snow--the headlights carve out two yellow lines in the dark, clumps of snowflakes flowing and flickering before them. He has something in his hand. 

Peter walks downstairs. He ignores his coat and begins to work on the locks, one after another, the metal barely cold at all against his fingers. He's almost done when there's a sudden knock on the other side of the door. 

"A moment!" he says loudly, and leans down to unfasten the last lock. The door swings open, revealing Mikaele on the other side, dressed in a thick coat and with a hat on his head. The light from inside the doorway paints him in golds and browns, the edges of him lost to the dark. 

"Evening," he says, vapour rising from his mouth, "You look surprised." 

Peter blinks, opens his mouth, and promptly remembers the radio. His eyes drop to Mikaele's hand. 

"Oh," he says. 

"Did you forget?" Mikaele smiles a little, "It took me a while to get around to it, but I figured you wouldn't mind." Snow has started to settle on his shoulders.

Peter did forget. "No." 

"Don't need it anymore, then?" is his next question, eyebrows raised. He draws his hand back. 

Peter stares at the radio.

Mikaele shifts his weight between his feet. "We could talk inside," he suggests, "It's kind of chilly." 

"No," Peter doesn't look up at him, "No, I don't think so." 

He keeps staring at the radio. His chest is heavy. He feels--hungry.

"Peter," Mikaele lifts it to eye level and waves it about, "I don't have all night. Do you want it back, or not? I could still buy it off you." 

"I... don't really know." 

Mikaele grins like a cat. "So you wouldn't mind if I were to take it." Peter glares at him and half-heartedly reaches for it, but - unlike before - Mikaele takes a step back, effectively getting out of range. "Why is it so important to you?"

Peter's stomach sinks. It's a silly, childish thing. Brotherly, almost, though they barely know each other. Before he can think, his arm is outstretched--and he realises, with horrifying sobriety, that he has stepped off the threshold. 

For a moment, they both freeze. Mikaele is staring at him, wide-eyed, face gone pale; Peter goes from terrified to sick to numb in the span of two seconds. 

"Oh, no," Mikaele croaks.

Reluctantly, Peter looks up. 

"Fuck," he says. 

The light is gone.

Of course it's gone. It's the one thing he should have remembered, the one thing that matters, the one thing he has sacrificed everything for. Of course it's gone. 

It's gone, and Elias isn't around to save it. He doesn't know what to do. 

He looks back at Mikaele, and at this point Mikaele realises that his game of cat and mouse is no longer on the table. He quickly, apologetically, passes the radio to Peter. 

"You know what?" he says, tense, "Repairs are on me." 

Peter looks down at the radio again and feels like laughing. 

"What are you going to do?" Mikaele asks.

It all seems so stupid, now. The radio in his hand. The snow crunching under his boots. When was he last time he walked on something other than metal or concrete flooring?

"I know this is... sudden," he says, "But would you mind giving me a lift?" 

Mikaele looks nothing short of amazed. 

"Depends," he blinks, "Where to?" 

"Just the nearest bus station." 

Mikaele's brow softens. "Well, I should be on my way to Lymington. You could come with me." 

Peter's already turning away to rush back in.

"Lymington?" he looks back, over his shoulder, hesitant to believe his luck, "They have a port, don't they?" 

Mikaele nods. "Oh, sure. It's further along the coast, beautiful views."

"Perfect. Just give me a moment to pack my things." 

He turns away again.

"Peter," Mikaele says abruptly, catching his arm, "What the hell are you going to do?" 

"I don't know yet," he says, good-natured, "I need a ship, first. I used to sail, you know." 

Mikaele looks like he might ask about the ships that rely on the lighthouse, the duty of the lightkeeper. Peter is worried he will ask about Administration, and treason, and the Lukas family. More than anything, he's worried Mikaele will ask how he plans on using his particular 'talents' without the lighthouse to channel them--for example, if he's going to hurt people.

It would be a silly question, anyhow. Now that he's gotten a taste, _of course_ he's going to hurt people.

Perhaps Mikaele knows this, because he doesn't ask.

"Pack up," he says instead, "I'll start the car." 

Peter steps back into the lighthouse, and it is a cold, grim skeleton of a living thing. It does not matter at all. He puts his radio on the desk, next to the phone, and leaves it there; he doesn't look at it again until he's on his way out, pausing by the staircase. He looks at his bed, and the window, and the desk. Difficult to believe how long he spent in here. Difficult to believe Elias was ever here, either. With some effort, he carries his chest down the stairs and, once again, disappears over the threshold. 

The lighthouse is quiet and still. It's as dead as anything can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading. it really means the world to me if you enjoy this au :) this chapter was difficult. i'm still not sure if it didn't come out the wrong way. i don't know if this sequel lives up to the original, but i wanted to write it, so i did. i took some further liberties with elias' character, and i'm glad! sorry for throwing bad gnc rep elias (tm) and gertrude/elias at you all ahahahhah. (can you tell how sick i am of a certain Worldwide Situation? well, if nothing else, it's something to draw on.) stay safe.
> 
> if you like, you can reblog here: https://thefinaloffer.tumblr.com/post/637055266451505152/radio-silence-lowfi-the-magnus-archives


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